Millions
by Valiox
Summary: Tweek hates change, almost as much as he loves numbers. But he's willing to make an exception. Creek.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own South Park, nor any of its related characters.

 **Author's Note:** On a rainy Friday night, I find myself sitting before my computer after two days of binging on Creek stories, deciding to try my hand at it. This isn't going to be easy for me - I'm much more used to writing Left 4 Dead fiction and things along those lines. A lot more challenging when I can't just throw together a gunfighting scene. :P

I make no promises, but I'm going to do the absolute best that I can to do this pairing justice. The majority will be from the perspective of Tweek (all of it will, most likely, unless some sort of Craig-muse hits me).

I hope you guys enjoy.

* * *

My therapist taught me, among a slew of other things that flew past me, that when I'm panicking or feel a paranoia attack coming on, I should shift my thoughts to things I can focus on. The taste of my favorite coffee - black - or the faces of my parents. Things that comfort me. Things that take me out of the moment.

I love to think about numbers.

They're fascinating. I don't tell anybody, they'd probably beat me up or make fun of me or something, but I love numbers. They're stable, they never change. Two plus two is always equal to two, no matter what's going on or who could be sick or injured or dying or whether or not gnomes are hiding beneath your bed waiting to grab your ankles if you _dare_ try and make a midnight run to the bathroom. For years I've busied myself by making up equations in my head and trying to solve them if I feel an anxiety attack coming on. People tell me it's unnerving to see me completely and suddenly zone out when I look like I'm about to hyperventilate, but I don't care. It helps.

And my grades in math have been terrific since junior high.

But sometimes my system fails.

Mostly when I get overwhelmed. Sensory overload, my therapist called it. When a certain combination of sights or smells or sounds freaks me out beyond any hope of logical resistance.

Like whenever Craig Tucker walks past me in the hallway on his way to class and he bumps me with his shoulder and I get the slightest whiff of his weird grungy smell. He smells like what I think Kurt Cobain would smell like if he was in the 12th grade in Colorado in the year 2015. And he hadn't blown his head off.

I hope Craig doesn't blow his head off. The thought makes me twitch.

 _31,520 x 14..._

"Ahem?"

My jaw snaps shut. A warm droplet of drool falls onto my exposed forearm, making me twitch again and let out a small noise. Ms. Olson, our Literature professor, looks down at me with pursed lips and a furrowed brow - which only really serves to make her unibrow more prominent - and she points, somewhat violently, at the paragraph in the textbook that we were supposed to be reading.

I hear snickers from people looking over at me. It's mainly Cartman. He giggles something about "Twitchy Tweak" into both of his chins and sharply turns around when Kyle, sitting next to him with a healthy buffer zone between them, jabs him in the arm with a glare. They've been somewhat civil toward one another since middle school. None of us are quite sure when it happened.

In front of them, Stan pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales in exasperation. A row over, Bebe giggles and blushes, and Wendy slams a gloved fist onto her desk. Bebe turns back sheepishly.

Next to me, Kenny shoots me a discreet thumbs up gesture. I return it, my eye twitching slightly. Kenny looks good now. His parents miraculously got their act together and now own a small business together, doing whatever it is ex-drug addicts do. They make more money than a lot of people in town, and it shows through Kenny; his old ratty parka has been replaced by a sleek leather coat that fits his body perfectly. He keeps an orange scarf tied around his neck at almost all times, though, kind of an homage. Whenever he's upset, he pulls it up over his mouth.

I don't talk to Kenny when he gets like that.

I look past him and see Craig in the corner by himself, absentmindedly writing on a scrap of paper. He's not doing the assignment, but nobody expects him to - not even the teacher. It's sort of an accepted fact at South Park High that Craig does whatever the fuck it is that Craig wants.

And nobody really knows what it is that Craig wants.

He brushes a black bang out of his eyes and looks over at me. It's not a challenge, but it's not a welcome glance, either. It's blank and expressionless, just like his voice. The perfect poker face. It's the look you give the police when you tell them you haven't heard about any missing children.

Oh Jesus. _31,520 x 14._

Kenny raises a thin, blonde eyebrow and follows my stare, turning his head slowly. Craig has lost interest in me by now, but I'm still looking at him. Granted, I've zoned out and I'm trying to focus on my math.

"Dude!" he whispers. "Stop staring at Tucker. People are gonna think you're gay or something."

It's a jab, and a shitty one at that. I _am_ gay, and he knows it. Everybody knows it. I've been out since junior high when Cartman led some kind of inquisition to try and find the gay kids.

Nobody else really gave a shit.

"S-sorry," I stutter, tearing my eyes off of him. He's weirdly captivating. Sort of the way serial killers are captivating. Right up until they kill you.

Oh Jesus! _31,520 x 14,_ _31,520 x 14,_ _31,520 x 14..._

 _"Tweek!"_ Mrs. Olson barks from right behind me. I shriek and nearly fall out of my seat, which sends Cartman back into hysterics, which pisses off Kyle, which sets off the whole chain of reactions again. The teacher rushes off to restore order and I readjust myself in my hard plastic chair, spasming. Kenny stifles a giggle next to me and I try to glare at him - which is offset by my eyes twitching again. He snorts, and I return, sort of, to my textbook. The commotion in the classroom, oddly enough, helps me focus.

 _441,280._

I smile triumphantly to myself and write the number on the palm of my hand with my green felt-tip pen, among the answers to other equations I've solved today. I survey my successes and, not thinking about it, glance back over at Craig. He's still writing on that scrap of paper, his pen moving in small, precise strokes.

It's horribly creepy and I spasm slightly when the thought crosses my mind, but I swear I see the tiniest possible hint of a smile roll across his lips.

I blush furiously, even though it had absolutely nothing to do with me.

 _12,169 x 27, 12,169 x 27, 12,169 x 27..._

Kenny looks me in the eyes the second I look away from Craig, and his eyebrows soar skyward.

Oh, Jesus.

* * *

 **A/N:** Just sort of testing the waters. Let me know, please, if you enjoyed this. I love hearing nice things, and they may just encourage me to continue. :)


	2. Chapter 2

The bell rings while Mrs. Olson's waving her hands around fervently, attempting to restore some semblance of order. Paying her no mind, the class rises in unison and moves to the door; I'm gathering my things absentmindedly, carrying numbers and shuffling through mental times tables, when Kenny rises along with the rest of the class. He runs his hand through my hair, a quick gesture - one he knows I hate - and leaves with a mischievous smirk.

I pat my hair back down. It's a hopeless gesture, and my cowlick springs back up, but it seems like something someone normal would do.

I tuck my textbook neatly away in my navy blue backpack and stand, sparing a look in Craig's direction. He's tucking scraps of paper into his pockets, all of varying sizes, but each covered with his small, neat handwriting. I can't tell what he's written and I don't dare to look closer. The scenario rushes through my head before I can help it, with my death or mortal injury being the most probable result.

My eye twitches.

He looks up at me, a questioning glance; I flee out the door past Mrs. Olson, who might as well be speaking Chinese to me.

* * *

As I walk down the hallway toward my next class, I run through the equation in my head repeatedly. It's like solving a mental Rubik's cube. I get one portion, then another, and eventually the entire thing comes together in one, incredibly satisfying conclusion.

 _12,169 x 27..._

I get bumped, hard, by a larger kid rushing past. My body bangs into a locker, and the numbers in my head scatter, replaced by thoughts of broken bones and internal bleeding. I spasm involuntarily, the muscles in my neck seizing, and I bang my head a second time on the metal beside me.

Normally, this wouldn't bother me too much. I embarrass myself in public far too often to let it really get to me. But as I look around, slightly dazed, my eyes meet with Craig's.

He looks at me with slight amusement - at least, I think so, his poker face is impeccable - and gives a small shake of his head as he walks away. His black backpack is strung over one shoulder and I can't take my eyes off him, even as my assembled peers continue to laugh at my prior misfortune. There's something strange about the way he looks. Dressed in all dark blues and blacks, he stands out against a field of reds and whites, like a shadow passing through.

He turns and walks into his next class, and I snap back to reality. I stand back up straight, having been semi-squatting against the lockers, and immediately the paranoia returns. I'm going to be late to class. And when I'm late to class, they're going to call my parents and call me a truant, and then I'm going to get grounded, and then my house is going to catch fire while I'm not allowed to leave and I'm going to die in a horrible inferno because my parents won't let me out of my room.

Oh Jesus, Jesus Christ. _12,169 x 27,_ _12,169 x 27,_ _12,169 x 27._

I empty my mind of Craig Tucker, breathe deeply, and push through the still-laughing crowd toward my next class.

* * *

I plop down in my seat and lean my backpack squarly against the leg of my desk, and pull out my Spanish textbook. I'm late, but our teacher - I don't even know her name - doesn't seem to notice. She's written a sentence on the board and is smacking at it with a yardstick, her mouth moving at mach speed, yelling about God knows what.

 _Todos ustedes son idiotas._ Who knows.

"Psst! Tweek!"

A sharp whisper six inches from my ear causes me to squeal and throw my arms up in self-defense. I peek through my forearms and see Stan's quizzical stare.

I twitch. "Oh! Y-yeah Stan?"

"Did you do those conjugations?" he asks, tugging bashfully at his red beanie.

I did them of course, but giving them to him would be cheating. If we get caught, I could get expelled. If I get expelled, I could get sent to prison, and if I go to prison, I could get raped and murdered by burly convicts. But if I don't help Stan, he could go on a murderous rampage and brutally stab me to death.

Oh, Jesus Christ. I carry a 2 in my head and suppress a spasm.

"Yeah, I - _ngh_ \- I did them. H-h-here..." I search through some papers in my backpack until I come across one with a coffee stain in the bottom right corner. I hand it over and put my bag back in its proper place.

"God bless you, Tweek." Stan grins, and I attempt to return it earnestly. My eye twitches.

He starts feverishly copying the worksheet, and I look back toward the board to try and understand what the hell Ms. Whatever-her-name-is is saying.

"Were you staring at Craig earlier?" Stan asks suddenly, his eyes still focused on his work.

My concentration breaks. I spasm and let out an odd noise. _12,169 x 27..._

"Oh, I-I was l-looking at one of the - _ngh_ \- posters on the wall!" It's a terrible lie. Stan doesn't buy it. He looks up at me with his mouth agape.

"You _were_ staring at Craig!" he gasps.

I grab my hair in each fist and let out a strained noise. People start turning around to look. "I wasn't! I don't have a crush on Craig!"

Stan raises an eyebrow. "I never said _anything_ about a crush. Do you have a-"

Before he can finish the thought, I stand up in my seat. I trip over my bag and stumble awkwardly out into the aisle. "I n-need to - _ngh_ \- bathroom!" I don't wait for a reply. I make a mad dash for the door, grabbing the laminated hall pass on my way out. The ever-present chorus of laughs echoes into the hallway accompanying me.

* * *

I walk hurriedly down the hallway, passing two bathrooms along the way. My mind is racing faster than my legs, headed towards bad places, and I try to steady my breathing and refocus. I visualize my numbers. _12,169 x 27..._

"328563," I say aloud. I pat my pockets for my green pen, but I must have left it back on my desk. It feels like a metaphor.

I hadn't even noticed the direction I was taking, and I find myself standing before my locker. I put in my combo, determined to look for a pen; success without documentation is hardly success at all.

On the otherwise bare floor of my locker lays a small scrap of paper.

My heart races as I bend down to pick it up. In compact, precise handwriting, thirteen digits are carefully written out. A phone number. With reverence worthy of the Holy Grail, I fold it carefully and tuck it away in the pocket of my jeans.

As I walk back to class, my legs feeling suddenly and mysteriously weightless, my mind is simultaneously flooded by images of joy and catastrophe.

My eye twitches.


	3. Chapter 3

I spend the remainder of the day in a sort of panicked silence. Thankfully, my teachers are either unaware of, or indifferent to, my distracted state. I complete my classwork, sort of, but all I can think about is the sticky note painstakingly folded and secured in my pocket. I can almost physically _feel_ it. If I didn't know any better - and I'm never sure that I do - I would imagine the thing actually burning a hole in my pocket and burning the skin beneath.

I text my mom before I get in my car and tell her to get the aloe vera cream. Just in case.

I almost run two red lights and a stop sign in my haste to get home. I grip the wheel of the Civic tighter, my knuckles going white, and I tap my foot against the accelerator. The car starts slightly jolting forward and I'm actually inching into the intersection, but I don't care. I'm the only one here. Thank God for living in a small town.

I don't even bother pulling into the garage. I pull the car over in front of our house, somewhat haphazardly, and dash inside. My parents begin to speak over their mugs of coffee, but I'm halfway up the stairs before the word "hello" is complete. With a loud "GAH" that I've been holding in for hours, I bust dramatically through my bedroom door and throw myself down on my Colorado Avalanche bedspread.

I'm honestly not certain how long I'm there for. Perhaps I fall asleep, or maybe I've been induced into some sort of comatose state by my overwhelming excitement and suppressed urges and twitches. My mind wanders off into semi-consciousness.

I hate the sound of silence. Which is an oxymoron, of course, but silence is more than sound and less than sound all at the same time. It's like, its own category. And whatever that category is, I hate it. It makes me nervous. In horror movies, it's always silent before the monster appears. Or the lady closes the mirror and the murderer is right behind her in the reflection or some shit. That always happens. If I knew I was in a horror movie or being stalked by a demon, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't stop to wash my face. I'd stay away from the goddamned mirrors, that's what I'd do.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Maybe I'm having a heart attack. Maybe all this talk of demons and monsters and _mirrors_ has caused my heart to beat so fast that it'll literally burst in my chest. I don't know if that's even medically possible, but the thought is enough to make me start twitching so rapidly that I'm almost vibrating in my bed.

 _Numbers, numbers. Think of numbers._ I can't possibly create an equation right now, so I start assembling numbers. Pulling them from nowhere. 6. 2. 9.

The paper in my pocket begins to feel warm. Those numbers seem familiar. I pull out the note and stare at it, unblinking, for an exceedingly long time before I remember the significance it holds.

"CRAIG!" I scream, and instantly cover my mouth with both hands. I look around my room quickly, as if creatures of evil are going to suddenly appear and punish my audial transgression. I slowly reach into the pocket of my jeans with my free hand, my eyes never leaving the paper for fear that it will vanish into thin air. I type the seven character password in and copy the seven digit phone number, triple checking that it's right. I start typing my first message.

I'm sweating at this point. Do I say "hi", or "hello"? Is "hello" too formal? Is "hi" too casual? We haven't really talked since middle school. Why does he even want to talk to me? Is this his number? Am I about to text McDonald's or something?

I settle on "hey".

I gently place the note onto my nightstand, next to my alarm clock, and review the message I've written. _Hey, it's Tweek. What's up?_ That seems like something someone normal would write for a first text. But, of course, this isn't just _any_ first text. I twitch and hit send before I can talk myself out of it, and collapse back onto my bed, feeling like I've won an armed conflict.

My phone buzzes. I shriek.

I slap a hand over my mouth, disbelieving. Surely he can't be texting me back already. But as sure as anything, my phone lights up, with Craig's message in the dead center of the screen.

 _"'what's up?' ur dad type that for u or something?"_

I think it was a joke, but I'm not sure. Craig's been known to be quite hostile. I hastily come up with a response. _No, it was me. Sorry._

I cringe slightly. Our first correspondence and I'm already lame. He probably hates me now.

 _"don't be sorry. what r u doing?"_

I was absolutely not prepared for that question. I can't tell him that I'm laying in bed panicking over this conversation. I should probably lie and say I'm doing something cool, like playing football or watching Sportscenter. But then again, I suck at lying. _Nothing. Just kinda laying around I guess._

 _"nice. i'm bored and have a free night. come over in like an hour. i just got smash for wii u."_

My heart rate triples. This is a lot of new information for my strained brain to process. I'm expected at Craig's house in an hour, to play video games. As if we're old buddies. I mean, I suppose we _are_ old buddies, but the principle remains the same. Of course, this could all be some sort of sick and twisted plot to steal my vital organs and sell them on the black market.

I twitch. But something tells me, beneath the layers of stress and panic and paranoia, that I need to go to Craig's. Maybe I'm soothed by his limited use of polysyllabic words. _Sounds great. See you soon._

I leap off the bed, tossing my phone to the side. There's much to do before me and Craig's -

I catch myself. I almost said _date._


	4. Chapter 4

People think that I'm easy to figure out. To a certain extent, I am. I'm Tweek Tweak, twitchy, spastic, paranoid Tweek. But like everyone else, I have other parts of me that most people don't know about.

For example, I'm really, really good at Super Smash Bros.

"Shit," Craig breathes, his brow furrowed in confusion and awe as Bowser roars in defeat, KO'd again. Lucina's victory fanfare blasts out of the TV and she strikes a pose with her blade. I suppress a smile. "How in the hell are you so good at this game?" I start to answer, but I quickly realize that the question was rhetorical when Craig loudly yawns and stretches upward, arching his back against the couch we're sitting against. His dark blue sweatshirt comes up a bit, exposing the hem of his white undershirt and a good deal of his dark happy trail. I blush profusely and pretend not to notice.

He puts down his controller and rubs his palms down the thighs of his jeans. "Didn't realize I was losing that badly." He smirks, and I look away.

"You just gotta - _ngh_ \- roll more, and try to block my combos. Bowser's really s-slow so you gotta try and - _ngh_ \- get in my face more."

Craig raises his eyebrows. "Get in your face? Sounds kinda gay." I must unconsciously make a face of pure horror and shock, because he busts out laughing. "I'm kidding, Tweek. Relax. I know you're gay. I don't care."

My heart rate slows, which is good, because I was worried it would pop out of my chest like in the _Alien_ movies. "Oh - _ngh_ \- that's good. Because I don't like - _NGH_ \- have a crush on you or anything." It comes out a little too fast-paced and high-pitched. I curse myself internally. He's gonna find out and then _I am going to die._

Craig shrugs indifferently and moves his character selection over to Donkey Kong. "I wouldn't really give a shit if you did. As long as you didn't like, try and rape me or something." I shiver at the thought. I couldn't rape Craig if I tried. Not that I would ever try. Oh, Jesus Christ. I laugh nervously and surf through characters, adding up the letters in all of their names to try and calm myself down.

Craig pulls out his phone and starts aimlessly going through it as I eventually settle on Captain Falcon. "Might even give it a shot if I was in the right mood. Girls piss me off. Too needy."

I think my soul actually leaves my body when I process those words.

My brain fries. I start frantically trying to put numbers together to focus myself, but the shock of hearing Craig say _that_ is way too great. My eyes cross, my jaw goes slack. I'm pretty sure I'm having a stroke. With a mighty spasm that sends a shudder through my entire body, I slump to the side. I hear Craig swear in surprise, and my vision goes dark.

* * *

I wake up a foot from my original position. I'm laying awkwardly, face-up, on the couch, one arm and leg hanging off the edge. My head's pounding and I let out a groan. Craig seemingly materializes out of the darkness standing over me, looking down through his black bangs with concern. "Jesus Christ, Tweek," he mutters. He gently reaches a hand around to the back of my head and lifts it up, placing another pillow that supports my neck. It's soft, not what I would expect to find in his house.

"The fuck happened?" He breathes. _Sometimes, when I find myself under extreme stress, I have anxiety attacks. My heart rate increases to dangerous levels, I hyperventilate, and then I pass out. It happens from time to time when I can't calm myself down. The thought of you actually consenting to do Christ-knows-what with me was enough to send me over the edge._

That's what I want to say. Instead, I just grimace and shrug.

"Just...take it easy for a bit, okay? I'll help you up to my room."

I nod slowly and offer my arm, expecting him to help me limp my way up the stairs. Instead, he grabs my wrist roughly and swings me up onto his shoulders fireman style. I let out a dog-like yelp and tense up. This is completely unexpected. Craig Tucker, uncaring, uninterested asshole Craig Tucker, is literally _carrying_ me to his room. Granted, I weigh like 40 pounds, but still.

The door is ajar and he pops it open with his knee, then crosses the room and unceremoniously rolls me off his shoulders onto his gold-colored comforter. His bed sits in the corner, giving me a view of his entire room.

Part of me expected it to be messy, unorganized, and chaotic, but it looks like something out of a catalog. The wall is perfectly painted the same shade of dark blue that he always wears, with a single framed picture dead center above his desk. I'm pretty sure it's something he's drawn. The desk is plain and wooden, the same style as the dresser in the opposite corner and the simple headboard behind me, and all of his papers and work materials are neatly organized, down to the last pencil sitting in a white mug. Next to my head, a lamp with a cube-shaped shade illuminates the entire room with soft light.

It doesn't seem like Craig, but all of a sudden, I find myself reevaluating my impression of him.

"Sorry, it's not much," Craig says, rubbing the back of his neck. I must have made a face again. "I hate having a bunch of shit in my room. Makes it hard to focus when I draw."

"N-no," I say hurriedly, wincing as my head pounds again. "It's really nice! It's very - _ngh_ \- you."

He looks amused. "I'll take that as a compliment."

I breathe a sigh of relief and give a small smile. I'm not dead in the water quite yet. I turn my head to follow him as he moves to his dresser, and just barely avert my eyes in time as he drops his jeans. " _Ngh_ \- Jesus, Craig!"

He turns around to look at me while he runs a hand through his black hair, sweeping his bangs up neatly. "Didn't think you cared. It's my room anyway." I try to come up with a snappy retort, but I'd have to look him in the eyes for that, and his eyes are way too close to his undressed lower-half. When he moves back into my line of sight, he's in a pair of black basketball shorts and a dark grey t-shirt with a design of a cartoon hand giving the finger. I laugh.

"What're you laughing at?" He inquires, but I'm too busy laughing to reply. He holds up his actual hand and shows me the bird, and I laugh even harder.

He doesn't understand. He's just so...Craig.


	5. Chapter 5

Craig leaves the room, muttering something under his breath about needing to go take care of some chores for his mother, who's out doing something or other. He waves his hand vaguely on the way out and tells me to make myself at home. I'm unsure what he means by this. How exactly does one "make himself at home"? I start to feel a tad anxious. Then I remember that there are five letters in Craig's name, and five letters in my name, and five plus five is ten, and an infinite amount of numbers can be created by adding zeroes to the end of the number ten.

This thought calms me.

I sit up and pull my ankles in so that I'm sitting cross-legged with my back against the wall. I'm still a little surprised by the order of Craig's room. I had always imagined a sort of nonchalant chaos, as if he didn't _like_ the mess, but didn't _dislike_ it enough to actually clean it up. It fit in nicely with my mental picture of Craig being the super cool bad-boy type. But even outside of my initial assumption being wrong, this felt much too clean and tidy. Even my room wasn't this put-together, and I would go into nervous convulsions if I spilled a drop of coffee on the carpet. Something was amiss. The thought intrigued me so much that I got up off of the bed, slowly to minimize potential mattress-groaning, and made my way over to Craig's spotless desk.

A thin stack of papers sits on the corner closest to me. I run through several thousand potential scenarios in my head before deciding to take the plunge; I look down and start reading. The topmost article is a letter from the school, addressed to Craig's mother and complaining about his recent habit of doodling in class. I half-smile and slide it to the side.

The pencil drawing underneath catches me by surprise, and I stifle a gasp.

At first glance, it's some sort of male angel - a figure hovering effortlessly above the ground, supported by a pair of marvelously detailed wings. But the wings are shaded dark grey and the feathers floating about the picture are black. The figure clutches an intricately crafted wooden bow in his left hand and is in the process of pulling an arrow from a stocked quiver strapped to his back. He wears an open cloak, fluttering in the unseen breeze, over a leather tunic, both dark, and the top half of his face is covered in shadow by his drawn hood. Only his stark-white eyes are visible, along with mouth, resting in a stern frown. On his shoulder, a black bird, maybe a crow or a raven, stretches its wings and calls toward the sky.

The picture is fantastically drawn. I can only imagine it took Craig days, maybe weeks, to finish this piece. I'm hesitant to even touch it, seeing as I'd probably find a way to tear it or get it caught on fire. So I settle for just continue to stare at it, marveling at the nuances and details I didn't see on first glance. Everything, down to the folds on the cloak, was just...brilliant. My mind started wandering a little. I wonder how Craig would draw _me_?

"You could always ask, first..." comes a bored voice to my right, and I yelp in panic before clapping both hands over my mouth. Craig's low chuckle perfectly complements the heat washing over my face. "Relax, Tweek."

"Y-you said I could - NGH - make myself at home and I - I thought I could - oh JESUS!" I cry out, entwining my hands in my hair. I haven't done that in ages.

"Shit, Tweek," Craig sighs, the concern from earlier finding its way back into his voice. He reaches both hands gently up to my head (sending a new wave of scarlet crashing through my cheeks) and helps me untangle my fingers from my blonde mop. "Don't worry about it. It's cool, alright?" I nod quickly, my eyes wide, and Craig gives me a small smile and shakes his head. "What were you even looking at...oh, Christ." He looks down at the drawing and his mouth curls in disdain. "This piece of shit?"

I look at him incredulously. "What're you - NGH - talking about Craig? It's amazing!"

He doesn't look at me, instead his eyes stay fixated on the paper, analyzing and dissecting every minute detail. "No. The shading's off, the lines aren't defined. His face is in shadow because I'm bad at drawing faces. This is just awful. Sorry you had to see it." His eyes narrow bitterly and he puts the drawing back on top of the pile, face down, hiding it away from view.

I'm not sure what to say. It's the best drawing I've ever seen, and for Craig to dismiss it as garbage both confuses me...and makes me wonder what he considers to be "good".

"If you thought that was good, what I'm working on now will probably blow your mind." He chuckles slightly and rubs the back of his neck, and I force a smile. After all these years, I still can't fully understand him. "It's gonna be crazy," he says, crossing the room and throwing himself down on the bed. "I'm using colors and shit instead of just shitty pencil. First time for everything." I laugh, and sit back down awkwardly on the bed, far enough away from him to avoid seeming creepy and close enough to not make it look like I'm avoiding him.

"I remember the first time I ever tried to draw," he mumbles. Something glints in his eye. I attribute it to nostalgia to avoid stressing myself out. "I tried to sketch my girlfriend at the time. She ended up looking like Yogi Bear. I think that's why I ended up dumping her. He laughs. I don't.

"So w-what made you want to start drawing?" I say, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. He half-shrugs. "Helped me quit smoking. Needed something to keep me busy, so I started carrying around a little sketchbook and drawing whatever I thought about instead of lighting a cig. Sounds pretty gay, I know."

I shift uncomfortably and hesitantly look him in the eyes, choosing my words carefully. "I think it's - NGH - cool, Craig. I re-respect that."

He laughs and raises his eyebrows at me. "Well god damn Tweek, I'm so thankful I have your _respect_."

I flush red as he laughs again, not in embarrassment this time. "Guess I'll keep it then," I snap without even twitching once, which surprises even me. Craig quickly sobers up and looks at me with that same concerned, serious expression again. "I was kidding, Tweek. You know I didn't mean that." He touches my knee with one warm hand, and my frustration melts in a single moment. I look back at him in time to see him give a small, apologetic smile, and I know I can't stay mad at him. Not even for a minute.

"Come on, let's get back to Smash. You're gonna get that ass _kicked_ this time." I nod, smile dumbly, and follow him out of the room like a puppy after his master.


	6. Chapter 6

I typically hate losing, even more than I hate winning. Finishing a game is just so much pressure. But something about being with Craig just naturally calms me down. I don't mind when he picks a cheesy character like Sonic, and I don't mind "failing to recover" just so I can see a giant smile spread across his face. I don't listen when he starts talking trash about my gameplay and boasting about his own - I just sit back and enjoy listening to the sound of his voice rolling over me.

He snaps me out of my trance when he puts his warm hand on my knee, looking me straight in the face with a cocky grin. "You'll get the hang of this, buddy. Don't you worry." Had anyone else said that to me, I might have spazzed out. But not Craig. I'm actually starting to relax a bit when he looks at me again, his dark eyes glinting.

"How about we make the next game more interesting? Winner gets five bucks." I hate bets. Bets create pressure. I smile weakly as I run through the multiples of five in my head like a rapid-fire machine gun. "I don't - _ngh_ \- want your money, Craig," I protest, and he waves a hand. "Fine, fine. If I win, I get five bucks. If I lose, I'll give you a kiss or some shit. I dunno."

I begin to sweat immediately. My carefully crafted mental times-tables are overrun by images of me and Craig kissing, then holding hands, then going on a date, then moving in together, then getting married, then having kids, then growing old together, then dying, all in the span of several seconds. By sheer force of will I remain conscious, stammering quietly.

Craig raises an eyebrow. "Pick a character, Tweek. I don't have all day." I swallow and nod, scrolling through the characters toward my best one: Meta Knight. There can be no mercy when the stakes are this high. I get into the zone as he picks Sonic again.

"Well, let's see if this goes any better for you..." Craig muses with an arrogant smirk. I set my jaw, staring at the screen. The match begins, and I open immediately with a flurry of attacks that racks up a sizable amount of damage on Craig's character. He grunts in frustration as I hit him with combo after combo, refusing to give him room to breathe. Meta Knight swings his sword once more, a powerful strike that sends Sonic flying off the screen for the K.O. I've taken no damage, and I exhale softly.

"Lucky," Craig murmurs, coming off of the respawn platform ready to strike. I predict his approach and dodge to the side, counterattacking with another furious set of blows that carries him across the screen. I retreat for a moment, planning my next move, while Craig sticks his tongue out in concentration. Sonic charges at me...and runs right into my smash attack, sending him up and off-screen for the second, and final, K.O. Craig simply stares at the screen in stunned silence, somewhat of a welcome change from his previous arrogance. I smile softly before realizing what my prize is, and my hands instinctively go to my hair in panic. Craig hisses and shoots his own hands up to stop mine from tangling themselves in my blonde locks.

"Relax, Jesus Christ..." I nod slowly, my eyes half-open, and he moves in before I can react. Our lips connect and my heart flutters, not in the usual way it does when I'm having a panic attack, but lightly, pleasantly, as if freed from all of my stress and worry. Craig's hand, surprisingly soft, cups my cheek as he kisses me deeply and passionately, before pulling away just as soon as he had begun. "Deal's a deal," he says with a shrug, before picking up his controller. I simply gape, just as he had done not a minute before.

"You...I..." I stammer, unable to form coherent thoughts. He rolls his eyes, looking over at me again. "It's just a kiss, Tweek, Jesus. We aren't getting married. You won, I'm a man of my word." My jaw is still somewhere on the floor and it takes me a moment to nod. I focus on reliving the kiss and trying to calculate the exact amount of time it had lasted. I look down at my controller and realize there's no way I can competently play another round, and I numbly stand and walk back upstairs to Craig's room.

Sitting on his bed with my knees tucked under my chin, I start to realize just how homey his room really is. I can imagine spending nights here, talking about whatever's on my mind, watching him draw, giggling when he gets flustered over a piece or being proud of him when he creates something brilliant. I feel tears prick my eyes, and that makes me angry; why should I be sad? I have a friend who clearly cares about me and understands how to calm me down, shouldn't I be happy with that?

But I just _can't_ be happy with that.

I start to weep into my knees as footsteps sound in the hallway, and Craig enters, concern etched into every line of his face. "Tweek?" He asks tenderly, reaching out a hand. I cringe away reflexively, as if his touch would burn. "Are you alright? What happened?" He asks, slowly sitting down on the bed a respectful distance from me. I can't bring myself to look him in the eyes. "You kissed me," I mutter, and instantly regret it: he's going to think I didn't want him to kiss me. I suppose on a level I didn't, but that's beside the point. "You k-kissed me and I l-like you a lot and I want to k-kiss you more b-but I know you d-d-don't wanna kiss me again b-because you're - _NGH_ \- straight," I spout out in one breath before my fucked-up brain can betray me.

Craig sighs, looking across the room at nothing in particular. "Look, Tweek. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think you were adorable, or that I've never thought about being with you. But...I don't think you want to be with me, dude. I'm kind of a psycho," he mutters, laughing quietly. I can't believe what I'm hearing. I dare to look up, and his facial expression makes me believe he's telling the truth. I reach out a hand tentatively, and he hesitates for a moment before taking it.

We don't say anything else, and we spend twenty minutes just like that.


	7. Chapter 7

The long, drawn-out moment of silence is interrupted by two things - one, it's getting late and my parents are expecting me home soon, and two, my palm is starting to get sweaty. I internally curse whoever invented sweaty palms, which I realize a moment later was probably God. The thought of cursing God makes me twitch and gasp. Craig raises his eyebrows and asks if I'm okay, to which I nod mutely; I still can't help but glance up for my inevitable divine punishment.

"Whatever," Craig yawns, stretching and exposing his dark happy trail again. My heart skips a beat. "Guess you gotta go or whatever, huh?"

I'm still somewhat stunned by the torrent of thoughts rushing through my head, but I manage a reluctant nod. "Y-Yeah, um...I g-guess so!" I bite my lip and look down at my hands in my lap, trying to figure out something to say, something to bring up that will buy me a few more precious minutes with the boy I've waited so long to spend this kind of time with.

But nothing springs to mind.

Craig stands, smooths the wrinkles out of his shirt, and sweeps his hand sideways through his black hair to get his bangs out of his eyes. "Alright. Guess I'll see you at school tomorrow. You're gonna have to help me with that algebra quiz or whatever." I hear his words, but I don't necessarily listen as I nod numbly. All I can think about is how I have to leave, when it's the absolute last thing I want to do. I give him a nod without looking at his face, rush past him, flee downstairs past his confused parents, and jump into my car. My fingers tremble and twitch as they turn the key. It's starting to get dark, which is a positive for me. I hate it when people can see me in my car, especially when I'm freaking out, which I usually am.

All I can think about is Craig; when I close my eyes, all I can SEE is Craig. Normally, it's a comfortable thought, but this time, it's like a river of fire coursing through my head. I bite my lip to stifle a verbal tic.

 _Numbers,_ I remind myself. _Focus on numbers._ My car's speedometer goes up to 240 mph, and there are 6 notches on my transmission. _240 x 1 is 240. 240 x 2 is 480..._

My phone buzzes with a text message, and I'm suddenly acutely aware that I'm sitting in front of Craig's house in my dark car, my jaw hanging open as I lose myself in equations. Embarrassed, I type in my password and check my messages - it's from Stan. _"Hey, Tweek. Could use your help studying for the algebra quiz. Kyle's busy."_ I frown, nibbling on my lip. Stan has always been nice to me, even if he teases me sometimes. Above all else, helping him with math would get my mind off of the whirling tempest of Craig. I send him back a yes and begin to drive, more than happy to get away from Craig's place.

As I drive through the dark, empty streets, the first few flakes of snow start to fall. It's pretty, but snow has always unnerved me. Snow means cold, and cold means potential hypothermia. My eye twitches and I shake off the thought, trying to reminisce about Stan. He hadn't really changed at all throughout the years - still sensitive, kind of a slacker, and more than a little neurotic. He was always the one trying to calm Kyle down before he could start fights with Cartman, and to his credit, he usually succeeded. I'd always found Stan kind of cute until I realized it was because he sort of resembled Craig.

 _Oh god, Craig._

I take the turn onto Stan's street a little too quickly and have to over-correct my vehicle before I hit a hydrant. My heart is thumping as I slow to a halt in front of Stan's childhood home. The very light dusting of snow on the grass melts beneath my sneakers as I slowly get out, make my way past Mr. Marsh, who has decided that a cold November night is the best time to sunbathe on his front lawn, and quickly go up to where I know Stan's room is. "H-Hi Stan!"

The black-haired boy turns and beams at me, dressed in a white T-shirt and dark red sweats. The first thing I notice - besides Stan himself, is his room. Papers and dirty clothes are scattered everywhere, along with magazines, books, various electronics, and dirty dishes. Punctuating it all is the unmistakable scent of a teenage boy: the smell that screams "someone has recently masturbated in this room".

My mind briefly flickers to the thought of breathing in sperm cells, and I instinctively pull my shirt over my nose. Stan blinks in mild hurt, then shrugs. "My mom does the same thing whenever she comes in here. I don't smell anything." He turns and begins rooting through a heap of assorted objects beside his desk, and finds his study guide inside a rumpled pair of tighty whities.

I wrinkle my nose and move into the room tentatively, smoothing out his bedcovers and brushing off some mysterious crumbs before slowly taking a seat. "Um...um...is th-there something sp...sp...SPECIFIC you're struggling with?"

I twitch as he glances at his wrinkled, blank study guide. "Uh...yeah, what are variables?" He looks up at me, his brown eyes full of misunderstanding.

Mine, however, are filled with bewilderment.

"Y-You d-don't understand - NGH - variables?! They're the b-building blocks of algebra!" I flip open my study guide and point to the second page. "Look! A v-variable is just a substitute for a number! It's s-something you have to figure out yourself!" I stand, set the page down in front of Stan, and point at it again; it has a simple equation written on it. x + 5 = 9.

Stan just stares at it, as if he's looking at Japanese. "You can't add a letter to a number. That isn't how math works." He looks up at me in total confusion, which only serves to agitate me even more. I wish he was wearing his beanie so I could pull it off and smack him with it.

"NGH! Algebra isn't like normal math!" I'm getting to be so frustrated that I've stopped stuttering for the moment. "It's like a puzzle! It's like something you have to figure out...like a mystery novel, or...or..."

Stan finishes my sentence for me. "Or like Craig?" His smug smile clashes with my horrified blush. I try tammer out a response, but I end up choking on my own tongue. Stan pats my back as I hack and cough. "Tweek, I was just kidding! Don't get so up in arms!" Unlike the way Craig touches me and looks at me, there's no misunderstanding Stan's signals. He's a friend, even if he's currently behaving like my worst enemy.

"I D-DON'T NEED TO FIGURE OUT CRAIG!" My eyes go wide as I think the statement over in my head. "I m-mean, I d-don't WANT to! GAH!" I make the executive decision to bury my face in my hands, which now unfortunately smell like Stan's stale bedsheets. "Leave me aloooooone!"

Stan rolls his eyes, leading me back to the bed and sitting down next to me. "Look, Tweek. I don't know what's going on between you and Craig, but it's honestly not much of my business. I just want you to know that I'm on your side, okay? Anything you tell me, I won't tell anybody. Not Craig, not even Kyle. Definitely not Cartman." He offers me that dumb charming smile of his, and despite my flaming red face, I nod. "Awesome! Now help me figure out variables."

I shoot him a glare before getting back to the study guide. I don't tell him, but it feels nice to know someone's looking out for me, and that someone actually cares.

I just hope Craig does too.


End file.
